


Burnt and Buried

by AlexandeNight



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: ADHD Archivist, ADHD Jonathan Sims, Angst, CW nausia, CW wound discription, Exhaustion, Gen, Jonathan Sims is exhausted and having a real bad day, M/M, Mag 92 aftermath, Part 1, Racing thoughts, Whump, burned - Freeform, hurt comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27487123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexandeNight/pseuds/AlexandeNight
Summary: Takes place in the aftermath of Mag 92.  Recently cleared of murder, Head Archivist, Jonathan Sims, takes a moment to decompress in the archives after a hellish week.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 28
Kudos: 190





	1. Part I

It throbed

Ached

_ Burned _

The events of the past few days came crashing down on Jon as soon as he left Elias’s office. Lord, he  _ hurt _ . 

Vagley, he wondered at the events that had led to working in a place where “not dying” was considered an accomplishment. Yet alone one where a sociopathic boss allowed him to take the wrap for a murder Jon did not commit, and spend the proceding week being stalked by the circus, having unpleasent interviews with the lightless flame, being cast into the vast and hunted down by Detective Tonner.

A sense of being  _ watched  _ sent a jolt of fear through Jon. He cast about for signs of Daisy. Was she gone? Was he safe? He didn’t think he could  _ deal  _ with her now, not after-

_ Stop it.  _

Jon sagged against the wall of the decidedly deserted corridor, the world shifting in swirling bursts. Alone, at last and again; he was alone. His good hand constricted around his wrist in a vain hope the pressure would alleviate the pain. It didn’t.

A distraction, that’s what he needed. 

Perhaps he could get some work done. It might be enough to take his mind off of things- He recalled several articles on ADHD outlining how quickly they picked up on the presence of pain stimuli, especially when it was the most interesting thing happening at the moment. There were a few other journals that indicated ADHD people had a higher pain tolerance than their peers. Jon snorted. He was still on his feet so there must be some truth to it. 

_ Good lord _ . If he was supposed to have a high pain threshold, what must something like this be for a normal person? Then again-he wasn’t exactly a  _ person _ anymore, was he. The way Daisy had-  _ Stop it, now.  _

The last thing he needed was to dwell on Detective Tonner and the events of the Past several hours. 

Jon all but collapsed into his chair, allowing the exhaustion leading his bones to pull him down. He held his burned hand close. Too close as the heat radiating off his body set his hand burning anew. He hissed, forcing it as far away as physically allowed. Practically prostrating himself across the marred surface of the desk. Causing a small avalanche of paperwork and statements to slide to the floor. 

He cursed under his breath. Why did he always have to make such a mess of things? Why couldn’t he do anything right? He’d driven Tim and Martin away, put Georgie in danger, couldn’t keep Melony or Basira from getting ensnared and...Sasha- Jon swallowed past the lump in his throat, disgusted with himself. He could barely think straight yet alone work. His breath hitched sending a sharp jab of pain from his throbbing ribs. Detective Tonner’s baton hadn’t...agreed with him. Acrid saliva pooled in his mouth, for a moment Jon feared he was going to be sick. 

Jon forced himself to still and breathe. It passed. The insistent  _ burning  _ sliding back to the surface. He did the only thing he could do, and turned attention to that all consuming pain. Attempting to capture the  _ feeling  _ with objective detachment. It was a technique perfected after the Jane Prentiss incident. Cataloging the sensations as though they were happening to someone else, another statement for the archives. That academic veneer had given him some modicum of  _ control _ , of  _ understanding _ . He  _ desperately  _ wanted that now-

Then again, that was the reason he was in this mess, wasn’t he? Always having to know? He sighed, sliding back into memory.

Once, while living with his grandmother, he had scalded his hand ladling out soup. It had ached for a week and flared up if he touched anything so much as tepid. This was  _ so  _ much worse. 

Unbidden, Elias’s words came floating back ‘ _ The Archivist observes and experiences _ ’. Jon groaned. Right, and what good would that do? Distastefully, he eyed the improvised bandage of t-shirt strips. He should change it, he knew but his stomach soured at the thought. Recalling kneeling on the hard earth, frantically prying off the molten wax. In his hast he hadn’t registered the blistering skin tearing away with it, leaving his palm raw and exposed. Part of him didn’t want to face the grotesquery behind the bandage- to see what  _ monstrous  _ form  _ it  _ had taken.

It  _ burned. _

He knew it burned. He knew it needed looking after and he begged his brain to stop sending the signals. After all:

Message received.

End the bloody statement.

Burns were nothing at all like cuts.  _ Cuts were well behaved _ . Delicately, Jon probed the ragged edges of the gash at his neck.  _ Cuts were predictable _ . Pressing down till he felt the sickening twinge slice through. For a moment there was this  _ known  _ experience, this  _ expected  _ outcome. He forgot about the burn, replaced only by the sharp sting in his neck. Then it all went sideways. 

Jon was looking back into the cold eyes of Detective Tonner as she pressed the blad to his throat. She had wanted to  _ cut  _ him, to  _ hurt  _ him, to  _ kill  _ him. She killed monsters, and she’d made it clear where he stood. His pulse jumped and his chest started to restrict as he saw once more Michael Crew, prone on the forest floor. The muzzle flash burned itself once more into his retina and Crew was dead. Daisy had done that. Daisy had done that right in front of him and Daisy had meant to do that to him and the fear threatening to spill over. It was too much, just too much!

“Will you stop it!” he shouted out loud, pinching the burn with all his might, abruptly returning to the physical experience of pain in the here and now; the nausea coming back with vengeance. He whimpered, pressing his face into the cool of his desk. Breathe. Just, breathe. What good was it to be a monster if it  _ hurt _ so badly? 

Once more he wraped fingers about a slim wrist, attempting to cut off the circulation. Anything to dull that burning. He longed to submerge it in ice. If he couldn’t stop the pain, maybe he could numb it, a little at any rate. 

With heavy eyes, he calculated the distance between himself and the door. Funny, it never seemed like it was that far away before. Jon wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and rest for a few moments, but his body simply protested too much. 

Ice, right, ice would help. 

He pushed himself upright on elbows and forearms. Jon’s legs felt heavy, as though he were borrowing someone else's. It was hard to move, much harder than it had moments ago- he glanced at the clock, jared to see hours had slipped by. How had that happened? 

He couldn’t understand why his body was having such a hard time moving when he’d been fine this morning. He couldn’t understand why the world wouldn’t stop spinning. The door to his office was closed, meaning he’d have to let go of the burn to open it. For an insane moment, he considered surrendering and curling up under his desk. But Jonathan Sims never  _ knew  _ how to give up, did he? 

Martin had had a bit of a day. 

Why wouldn’t he of? It wasn’t every day that you find out your very life is tied to your place of employment, your coworker had been killed over a year ago replaced by a supernatural imposter and that your “double boss”, to use Tim’s turn of phrase, was a cold blooded killer. 

And  _ Jon- _

The man knew how to make an entrance, stumbling into the archives, covered in grime, flanked by Detective Tonner and Basira. And  _ core _ , he looked  _ bad _ . 

After the meeting, Martin had been whisked away by Basira and Daisy to...answer a few questions. It had felt more like an interrogation than anything else. He wondered why it had been so difficult for them to accept that he had been as much in the dark as the rest of them. Tim hadn't helped matters by continuing to make a string of dark comments and Melony had started to genuinely unnerve him. Which was saying something considering he  _ literally  _ worked among Eldritch horrors. 

After everything, he needed a moment to himself. Away from angry coworkers and murderous bosses and prosecutorial police detectives. He retreated back to the old cot in document storage, mulling things over late into the day. For once he didn’t worry about wasting institute time. If Elias was to be believed, Martin could no more be fired than he could quit. Always, his thoughts returned back to Jon. He hoped the man had good enough sense to go home and rest up. 

“I need a cup of tea-” he said to no one in particular, scrubbing a wery hand down his face. As far as he could tell, the others had left hours ago. Just as well, he didn’t feel up to peacekeeping at the moment. 

Martin froze at the door of the employee lounge.  _ Jon _ was there! Standing with his forehead pressed against the fridge. Looking for all the world like he was about to fold at any second. Even from his vantage point across the room, Martin could tell he was trembling. 

“Jon?” he regretted speaking at once. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jon lept like a spooked cat. 

“M-Martin-'' his voice was faint, frayed at the edges with exhaustion. Concern gripped Martin’s chest as he took the man in properly. 

Even covered in ruddy mud; the bruises under his eyes were stark, stretching his gaunt features in agonized lines. He had a death grip on a thin wrist of a badly bandaged hand. It reminded Martin of the aftermath of Jane Prentiss and having to chase him away from the tunnels to ensure Jon had time to heal. Only this was worse, somehow.  _ Then _ , Jon had been angry, driven by the single minded purpose of finding out who had it in for the archivist position. But now- the fight was gone, leaving him small, vulnerable and  _ lord _ , he looked defeated. 

“Can I help you?” 

Jon made a complicated spazam of a movement Martin couldn’t make heads or tails of. Muttering something about getting some ice as he listed to the side.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin does his best to treat the stubborn fool of an archivist.

Swearing, Martin rushed forwards catching Jon under the arms before he collapsed completely. Nearly dropping him when he cried out in pain, the entirety of his slim fraim going rigid. He was  _ hurting _ him. Christ! 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry” Martin chanted, “w-we just need to get you sitting down, then we can have a look and it will all be over and-” Jon made a choked whimper from in back of his throat as Martin dragged him to a chair, propping him up on the table. Jon kept hold of his wrist the entire time, making their movements rather awkward. Hoping he was strong enough to sit. He was. Martin dared to hope it was a good sign. 

“Christ Jon, what happened?”

Jon shook his head and winced. “Jus’ wanted ice-” 

“Ice? Oh, oh right!” Martin leapt up and retrieved a medical grade ice pack from the ice box. Artifact storage had taken to squirling a few away incase of accidents... Sasha had attested to their frequency. The knot in his stomach tightened, had it truly been Sasha that had told him that? Or the thing that had replaced her? 

Jon hesitated a moment before gingerly accepting the pack, curling it about the bandaged with a hiss leaving a muddy crimson smear across the plastic. Martin gasped, he couldn’t help it and took hold of Jon’s bare hand. Jon pulled back. Not before Martin saw the dirty broken blisters, some worn bloody, the skin already stiffening and cracking around exposed wounds.

They locked eyes, the Jon closed in on himself in an exhausted fashion. 

“Oh Jon-” Martin started.

“It’s fine-”

“No- it’s not.” he stood “Hang tight and we’ll get that sorted, yeah?” Without waiting for an answer, Martin flipped on the electric kettle and left to get the first aid kit. 

Another perk of Artifact storage was a hefty and well stocked first aid kit. Jon had his head down on the table, breaths coming in shallow and far too fast for Martin’s liking. It looked...painful. 

He took out a cloth and a bowl of water, aiming to have Jon clean up some. He eyed the hoody caked in mud that hadn’t seemed to have dried. That wouldn't do, he’d get chilled that way, if he wasn’t already.

“Do you have a change of clothes?” he asked even though he already knew the answer. It was no secret that Jon stayed nights.

“I-I think so? Yes-”

“Good,” Martin nodded resolutely “Then let’s get you out of that jumper.” he winced, that hadn’t come out right.

“Right-’ Jon moved gingerly, his hand didn’t seem to work properly and he resolutely refused to allow the dominant one to leave the ice. 

Martin watched him battle the hem of the hoody, chewing on his lower lip. Debating whether or not he should help his boss out of the layers. Was this a boundary he was able to cross or? No, the time for boundaries went to the wayside with the worms. This was something that needed to be done, plane and simple. 

“Let me.” he leaned forwards and eased the garment up over Jon’s head, heart hammering all the while. This close, he could make out a ‘ _ what the ghost’ _ logo with faded horror lettering. He hadn’t realized that Jon was a fan. Jon hissed as his body protested the movement, making Martin bite back words of comfort. His undershirt rode up exposing his torso and  _ ohhh _ .

Bruises. Black and blotched with red; bulging out of his brown skin. Martin saw three, maybe four elongated marks and more discolorations before Jon peeled the sleeves off his arms; the shirt falling back into place. They’d only been visible for a moment, but they looked deep, perhaps in contusion territory. In which case, Jon really ought to get looked at in case of infection. 

Martin was just about to comment when he spotted the gory line carved into Jon’s throat. 

“What happened?” he found himself asking for the second time that night, insides twisting. His hand flew to the wound trying to determine how deep it was under the grime and flaking blood. It was still oozing, jagged scarlet edges giving wavy to a meaty pink, stretching clear across his neck. There was a large dark stain on the collar of the light T. His skin felt hotter than it should under his fingers, and Martin wondered if there was a fever there. Given his state, probably. 

Jon recoyled. It was too much, course it was, Jon wasn’t the sort of person you touch lightly. Even Tim, who valued physical contact, was careful with Jon.  _ Had _ been careful around Jon, Martin corrected. The casual side hugs or hand on shoulders had all but dried up what with Jon’s paranoia. 

“It doesn’ matter.”

“Yes, Jon, it  _ does _ matter.” he sat back “We really should take you to an A&E.”

“No!” there was a touch of fear in his voice and his eyes went wide.

“ _ Jon”  _ Martin was exasperated. Wishing this man would stop being so, so  _ stubborn _ and get some proper help! This was out of his depth. Reminding him chillingly of having to dig worms out of Jon with a corkscrew. How he had screamed under his touch-

“‘tective Tonner-” he began, hunching over, words blurring together “I-I don’ know if I’m...clear-” he took a shaky breath “Please. I-I know, don’ have the right- for favors-”

“It’s alright.” Martin said with a grimace. Though it wasn't, it wasn't at  _ all- _ The man had been on the run,  _ stupid _ , how had he forgotten? “I-I get it.”

Jon huffed and closed his eyes. Seeming to breathe easier.

“Then let's see what we can do about your hands.” 

Martin did the best he could to clean it up. The long sleeves had prevented the grime from going to fare up his arms, which was about the only good thing here. His hand was rubbed raw, the tips of his fingers oddly blistered and unnaturally warm to the touch. He didn’t like it. The dirt had gotten deep into the broken blisters, and he wasn’t sure how successful he’d been at flushing it out with the wound wash. Normally, he’d leave blisters out in the open air to heal, but these weren’t those types of blisters. 

Once it looked clean to the eye, Martin smeared antibacterial ointment on, covering the palm with gauze and medical tape. Hardly a replacement for a trained medical professional, but a damn sight better than what Jon could have done for himself. 

Jon sighed. Carefully curling long fingers apparently testing the flexibility; keeping his hand in place on Martin’s. It was hard not to notice how snuggly the bony hand fit in his own. The weight of them felt...nice. He huffed, irritated with himself. This was hardly an  _ appropriate  _ time. 

“Better?”

“Yes-” he withdrew back in on himself, for an instant Martin did want to let go “Yes. I-it does. Thank you.”

“Good.” flush creped into his cheeks “Then on to the next one.” 

Jon seemed reluctant to move it from the ice pack so Martin did it for him. He was deliberate and careful as he unwrapped the solid T-shirt. If Jon’s hisses were any indication, this hurt like hell. With each layer removed his dread grew. Jon seemed to have coated the wound in some sort of ointment, making the badges damp and heavy. That hadn’t stopped the blood from seeping through.

Martin inhaled sharply when he finally peeled the last of the bandage away. 

“Oh  _ jeez  _ Jon.” it was swollen, the palm an alarming shade of red and surface marred by broken blisters. In some areas, patches of dermis seemed to be missing- His stomach churned as though he was going to be sick. 

“I know.” Jon moaned. 

“Is- is that a  _ burn? _ ” he  _ hated _ burns, they were his least favorite thing in the world, and Jon-  _ Christ! _

“Yes.” his voice was soft, barely above a whisper. 

“Don’t suppose you’re going to share what happened there either.” he couldn’t keep the hardness out of his tone.

Jon waved a hand vaguely “Got a ss-statement, Jude Perry.”

Martin frowned, the name sounded familiar. “Hang on, wasn’t she-”

“The church of the lightless flame? Agnus Montague?” he grimaced “yeah.” and he curled smaller, placing his head on knobby knees and resting his hand once more on the ice pack. 

“Ohhh Jeez.” Martin was torn between wanting to ask more questions and not wanting….details. Instead he pulled out his phone. He knew enough about burns to know that they required special treatment, which required a bit of research. Mindful to not look at the images the screen threatened to divulge. 

First order of business was to suss out the degree of burn. It was oozing fluid, which meant it wasn’t a first degree, but wasn’t,  _ oh lord _ , blackened- (he checked just to make sure) so probably not a third degree. Then, type of burn, he skimmed through the list until “Thermal” jumped out. That was probably a safe bet. The article recommended seeking treatment by a medical professional if it was a deep burn, or if it bled. Hugh, who would of guessed  _ bleeding  _ was a bad sign? 

Martin grimaced and sent a silent curse to Detective Tonner for spooking Jon away from the A&E. 

That article ended, so Martin went looking for information on second degree thermal burns. His heart jumped to his throat. He seized the ice pack from Jon and chucked it into the sink as though it had personally offended him. Jon started and looked like he was about to say something when Martin headed him off.

“Ice can cause nerve damage in burns.” he said quickly by way of explanation. Oh god, he hadn’t made things  _ worse _ had he? His mum was always saying he made things worse! He took hold of Jon’s hand, inspecting it as if he knew what he was looking for. The cold quickly fled under his touch, replaced by an unnatural heat. Was that a good thing? Martin had no way of knowing. 

Jon made a strangled whimper, his narrow chest hitching. “Martin-it’s-it’s hot-” he was trembling again, but otherwise keeping horribly still.

“What? Oh!”  _ heat sensitive _ , Jon was heat sensitive because of the burn! That was something he should have remembered.  _ Stupid! _ He let go with a hasty apology. Jon wirily propped his arm above his head, obscuring most of his face from Martin’s view. 

Running water. The article said it was important to cool it with running water. Martin crossed over to the sink and ran the faucet on the coldest setting. Then got a glass of water and shook out a few Paracetamol pills for Jon to take. 

“We’re going to move you over to the sink.” Jon unfurled as if to stand but Martin stopped him. “Stay put, yeah?” he doubted that standing would be a good thing for him at the moment. Instead, he took hold of the back of the chair and dragged it across the floor to the sink. It made an embarrassingly loud squeak as they progressed, but they didn’t have far to travel. 

Soon, Jon was positioned against the counter, arm resting over the sink divide with the water rushing over his hand. He gave a relieved sigh, the lines on his face easing slightly.

“Better?”

Jon nodded. Martin thought that he was going to nod off at any moment and had him take medicine. He was pleased to see Jon didn’t have much trouble holding the glass and took it all down. He set the timer on his phone for fifteen minutes. 

He hoped that the water would loosen the grime of the dirt salv mixture which would  _ definitely _ be a problem if not cleaned away. Jon had  _ tried _ to care for it, but clearly hadn’t given it the same attention as he did work assignments. It was at once frustrating and endearing. 

“Jon?”

“Hmmn?” 

“Would it be alright if, if I get your neck?” he seemed sensitive about that one. Martin didn’t want to spook him again. 

Jon was silent for a moment, and Martin thought he hadn’t heard; then the soft “Yes.” came.

Martin nodded relieved. Taking a freshly dampened cloth and carefully wrapping it about Jon’s throat, pulling long tangled locks out of the way and smoothing the fly aways back. Noting the mud crusted in his hair and the way Jon’s eyes fluttered at the touch and seemed to be leaning in and _oh no_ _thiswasnotokay_! 

He jumped to his feet, muttering something about “getting the tea” and busied himself with the kettle and mugs. Making the brew how he knew Jon liked it like it was second nature. Quickly tucking the tin with the legend of  _ decaf _ back on the shelf. Knowing full well Jon found the very  _ existence _ of decaf offensive. 

_ Right- _ Martin thought,  _ the burn _ . Taking a moment to center himself, Martin pulled the table closser and flipped off the water. Jon made a reproachful cat-like sound that caused Martin to choke.  _ What the hell was that?! _

Warmth bloomed in his chest. Martin barely kept the smile from his voice as he soothed “I know, I know- just, time to get that bandaged up.” before remembering who exactly he was addressing and feeling the flush deepen in his face. The sharp rebuke he’d expected, never came. 

The inflammation seemed to have cooled considerably, which Martin could only guess to be a good thing. The blisters seemed a good deal cleaner as he patted it dry, the salv and dirt having washed away. 

Jon had been unusually quiet, so Martin filled the void, explaining exactly what he was doing and why “The article recommended non-stick bandages, no ointments or sprays. There was something about trapping heat in, or infections?” he huffed a nervous laugh, peeling the material from their sterilized wrappings. Jon hummed distractedly. So he was listening after all- Martin could work with that. The talking also helped Martin keep his mind of the type of injury he was treating, serving to calm him. 

As tenderly as he could, he wrapped each long, swollen finger, moving to the palm and thumb. Jon was watching him again, he could feel those deep brown eyes focus in on him as he worked. The burns covered, Martin switched to gauze and encased the hand loosely to allow proper circulation and accommodate any inflammation that may occur. He told Jon as much.

When all was said and done, Martin took another damp cloth and laid it over the forearm, far away from the wrappings to keep them clean. It was meant to further cool the blood flowing to the appendage. At least, that was what Martin was hoping it would do. Cold water on your wrists could cool you on a hot day, so why wouldn’t that principle apply here? 

That left the neck wound. Martin grimaced noting how Jon’s soiled hair brushed against his throat. He debated if it would be a good idea to tape Jon into some plastic and have him wash up in the Archive’s shower rooms (another accommodation for artifact storage). Then again, the man had nearly collapsed opening the freezer. So, maybe not. He could try and wipe it out or…

The sink had a spray nozzle. It would be much easier to use that. Once again he bit his lip, trying to parse out if this was absolutely necessary or just a random excuse to feel Jon’s hair. If he was being wholly honest with himself, it was a bit of both. Not to mention it would be easier to treat the neck injury. 

“I-I’ll be right back.” he said, going to retrieve the shampoo and conditioner he’d never bothered to bring back to his flat and a spare jumper. Jon was leaning heavily against the counter, but kept glancing this way and that as if keeping watch; starting when Martin knocked on the door. 

“ _ Christ- _ Martin. I thought-” he swallowed hard “never mind.”

“Just me.” he smiled wanly “We need to give your hair a bit of a scrub down, get the mud out. Alright?” 

Jon starred and Martin’s stomach dropped. Sure that Jon  _ hated _ the idea, that he  _ hated _ Martin  _ touching _ him, yet alone treating his injuries. He barely tolerated Martin bringing him tea. Oh  _ God _ , he’d made it perfectly clear how he felt about Martin, hadn’t he?

“You’re hair- it-” why was his mouth so dry? 

“I heard you-” the awkward pause dragged out where Martin’s heart did violence to his ribcage “Why are you being so….nice? to me?” 

So the paranoia was kicking in? But no- this sounded different...the way his voice hitched at the end. 

“I-” Jon swallowed “I haven’ treated-you fairly. Wasn’ professional-” Strained, his voice was strained and quaking like the rest of him. 

_ Christ _ was he going to cry? If anyone was deserving of a good cry right now, it would be Jon. But...Martin wished Tim was here. That Tim was here and wasn’t  _ angry _ with Jon. That Sasha was here and wasn’t- there was a sharp pang in his heart. How long had Jon known that Sasha wasn’t…. _ her _ anymore- They’d known him back in research, were  _ friends _ even. Martin had no idea what to do with a Jon so far off script. 

Edging closer, Martin hummed thoughtfully “because you need it.” he said. “A-and when I needed help with the w-worms- you gave it to me. So now I’m helping you. Okay?” 

“You shouldn’t have to-to put up with this- M’ not even a  _ person- _ ” there it was again that strange quaking voice, he was breathing shallow and too fast.

Martin considered for a moment “No- no, I really shouldn’t.” Tired, Martin was very tired. It was just sinking in that Jon had tried to protect both himself and Tim from the Not!Sasha? “But it’s not  _ you _ I’m putting up with. It’s this place.” he scratched his forehead, he didn’t want to talk about this now. Not the worry, the division in the staff, the  _ things _ out there intent on  _ hurting  _ them, the disappearances, the fact they were trapped in a job where the only way out seemed to be  _ dying _ , or anything to do with Elias and that persistent feeling of being  _ watched.  _ He-he didn’t want to think about it. 

“So I’m going to push the table up to the sink, and you’re going to have a lie down so that I can get the dirt out, okay?”

“Yes” little more than a horse whisper.

In no time at all, Martin found himself soaking and sudsing Jon’s hair. His neck pillowed on a few rags and burn elevated above his heart. As with before, Jon’s eyes began to flutter and he leaned into the touch. He took his time working up a lather, rinsing and repeating until the grit on his skull was gone and the water ran clear. 

This was soothing work, he fell into his usual pattern that he did when dying his mum’s hair. It was the first time that Jon seemed to genuinely relax; actually looking his age. How could he of thought this man was capable of murder? It was true he was critical, borderline confrontational with a nansty habit of pushing things too far and yet...he  _ cared,  _ at the center of it all he was very  _ human _ . Trying his best even with the impossible mess he’d been charged to sort out. And Martin had grown to respect that. 

He worked the cream rinse in, teasing out the tangles; enjoying the way the black and silver locks slipped through his fingers. Leaving it to sit while he had a look at the neck wound. 

It was much deeper than he’d wanted it to be. The cloth had done its job though and the clean up was easy. While sleeping in the archives, Martin had done a lot of research on sutures; just in case. He took out the sterilized strips and started at the center, pulling the skin together as best he could. Then worked from the edges inwards, laying the strips over the edges of previous placed ones till it resembled a railroad track. Transforming it from the image of a closed eye to a straight forwards latus work. In theory, it should strengthen the hold of the butterfly stitches. But it wasn’t like he had instruction. He finished up with ointment, gauze and a bandage around his neck. 

By the time Martin finished rinsing out his hair, he was surprised to find Jon fast asleep. Tim had stories of strange places he’d found Jonathan Sims sleeping in research, with the funniest being wedged upright between two filing cabinets and curled into a vacant shelf in document storage. But this was his first time  _ seeing _ it.

Martin pressed a hand to his forehead. There was no longer any doubt of a fever, with everything that had happened it wasn’t a surprise. It was probably the most  _ normal _ thing to have happened all day. He draped his jumper on the sleeping figure. It all but swallowed him in its soft folds, but Martin could still make out the labored breaths. 

Was this karma for lying on his CV? If so, he had a few choice words to share with karma.

An hour, Martin decided he’d give Jon an hour before sending him home. There were a couple of poems in this hellish day. Wishing he hadn’t left his journal at home, Martin instead busied himself by tidying up and returning the first aid kit to its proper place. Even managed to head off Emmet, the night custodian, before he walked in on Jon.  _ Christ,  _ was he  _ trapped _ here like the rest of them, doomed forever to be cleaning up after the archives? Did he know? Or was he as ignorant as Martin had been yesterday? 

Jon was plainly still knackered after the rest, but seemed steadier, a little more himself than before. 

Martin had taken the liberty of locating Jon’s change of clothing. They were fussily folded, the collar of the button down even propped up with a bit of cardboard. Handing them to Jon with a “We can’t have you taking a cab like that, people will think you ate a puppy- or something.”

Jon had actually smiled a little “Who's to say the puppy didn’t have it coming?” 

“Jon!”

He shrugged, and winced “Just saying-it could have messed up the archives.” he gave a side glance at Martin who flushed head to toe. 

He helped Jon to the waiting cab, having the thin man lean against him. Using the opportunity to give him veiled threats on returning to the archives too soon and recommending an A&E. 

Jon had thanked him then, as he was gingerly placed into the cab. Martin couldn’t help but feel that he was in serious trouble as he watched the tail lights vanish round the corner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that moment when you firmly believe that you won't be able to reach 1,000 words and your story somehow ends up being over 5,000? Cuz that's what happened here XD  
> Finished first ever fanfic! 
> 
> Firm headcanon that the archives have a shower room.   
> For the record, falling asleep standing up is a thing I have done. I do not recommend allowing your body to get that tired though, it kind of hurts.   
> Operating under the assumption that first day of injuries are not that bad, it's really the second and third day that knock you on your butt. (this is from personal experience).

**Author's Note:**

> Sweet Spirits! This is my first fan fic because...apparently I've sold my soul to the Magnus Archives. It ended up being larger than I thought it would be.  
> Part II will be out shortly 
> 
> Decided to give Jon some of my traits when it comes to injuries. Which are cataloging the experience (so I can use it for things like this as first hand research) and trash talk yourself if your body doesn't do what you expect it to. As well as the time honored classic of poke it until it hurts. (Additionally, he's an INTJ personality type and I'm an INTP. There is overlap in world perceptions)  
> Being ADHD myself, I have no problem recognize Jon as one of us. Though it's probably not noticeable while wounded.


End file.
